#cozyhorror

(or: Young Justice accidentally becomes staff at a cosmic nap-time daycare)

So. Fun fact no one warned Danny about when he became half-ghost: He can stay awake for ages—literally, weeks or months with zero sleep. But when the tired hits?

He drops into a supernatural coma for 1,000–3,000 years.

Yes. Years. Clockwork confirmed it. Ran the math. Cackled. It was a whole thing.

The cause? Well… Danny once slammed the Time Medallion directly into his core. (Long story, lots of screaming, very “bad decisions speedrun.”)

His still-developing core went, “Oooh shiny snack” and absorbed the temporal energy. Now his ice core is part-time Time God.

Side Effects:

• Danny is basically immune to time shenanigans • His powers turbo-charged • His body now needs Ancient-Eldritch Reset Cycles

But Danny? He’s stubborn. He refuses to “sleep through” multiple human civilizations. So he and Clockwork jury-rig a solution:

Clockwork shoves him into a dimension with funky time physics. Danny gets a cozy apocalypse-proof bunker filled with eternal pillows, enchanted blankets, the whole sleep-paralysis-chic aesthetic.

And they… hire Pariah Dark’s Skeleton Legion as caretakers.

Surprisingly excellent at the job. They dust. They tidy. They protect. They set out snacks. It’s all very “undead butler” vibes.

Unfortunately… the locals eventually stumble upon the sacred nap chamber.

Instant cult formation. They cut a hole into the ceiling to drop offerings. The Skeleton Legion allows it because the offerings help with upkeep. Everyone’s happy.

Until the cult decides to chuck Bart Allen down the hole.

Right onto Danny’s bed.

Supposed sacrifice. Also an attempt at a living alarm clock.

When Wally shows up to rescue Bart, he finds:

Danny—deep in cosmic hibernation—clutching Bart like a comfort plushie And the Skeleton Legion attempting to gently, reverently, pry Bart free.

Wally: “…Uh??”

Bart: “I think they’re trying not to distress the Cuddle Deity???”

Wally: “Just phase out.”

Bart: “What if he wakes up and IMPRINTS?? I need a SUBSTITUTE SNUGGLE ITEM.”

Cue Wally zip-running across continents to gather armloads of giant plushies. Danny rejects every single one.

Meanwhile, Bart’s having a shockingly nice time: The Skeletons feed him like a beloved house cat. The cult dropped video games. The bed is one of the softest surfaces known to mortals.

He texts Young Justice for backup.

That’s when everything spirals.

The team vows to find a stuffed animal worthy of replacing Bart. They fail. Catastrophically.

Eventually, they institute the Cuddle Rotation: Each member takes turns being Danny’s designated snuggle-stand-in.

They bring a TV. Weights. Homework. Half-built gadgets. Snacks that should not be legally classified as food.

Danny’s sacred nap chamber becomes Young Justice’s unofficial off-world hideout.

And then one morning… Danny just gets up.

No holy light. No cosmic chanting. Just a very grumpy, very bed-headed eldritch teen shuffling toward the smell of coffee.

The YJ member on cuddle-duty is passed out beside him. Danny carefully detaches himself, pads into the makeshift kitchen, and is handed a mug before anyone processes events.

They chat for like ten minutes.

Then someone freezes mid-sentence.

“WAIT— You’re awake?! You’re NOT supposed to be conscious!”

Danny, deadpan, sipping coffee: “Why is my bedroom a teenage superhero crash pad?”

Young Justice: “OKAY BUT IN OUR DEFENSE—”

Home might be the strangest place of all. They left Earth as seven adults—vetted, trained, disciplined, and prepared for the long arc toward the as-yet-unrealized wonders of a new civilization on Mars. Ten months out, a few months on the red dust as the beginning of an epoch, then ten seemingly interminable months back. A simple equation of distance and duty.

When they finally descended through Earth’s atmosphere and returned home a little more than two years later, they braced for the often-loathed parades, policy briefings, and the solemn weight of historical headlines. Inside each of the astronauts, there was also a secret longing for the attention, the contact, and the return to their remembered normalcy.

Instead, they stepped into a nursery.

The spaceport, once a mega-cathedral of steel and ethical protocol, had been remade into something soft and dreamy in pastel. Interlocking safety mats covered the floors. All perceived sharp corners had been rounded and padded. A mural from a famous kindergarten artist of smiling cartoon planets stretched across the far wall.

And the officials waiting to greet them wore NASA bibs.

At first, the crew thought it was a prank. Maybe the ultimate joke. But then the “officials” began speaking in sing-song rhymes, the kind printed on candy-sweet cereal boxes labeled “safe for all ages.”

Parliamentarians toddled about, blankets around their shoulders or clutched in their arms, begging their parents for snack money. Lobbyists toddled over to steal some of the lunch money. Soldiers zoomed past in pastel plastic electric cars, firing foam darts across an imagined European battlefield of playground mulch until their batteries died and tears flowed.

Places of worship had become carnivals. Olympic stadiums were now grassy hills for rolling contests, with pizza on the podiums. Restaurants served only finger food with plastic cups prepared by robot chefs; knives, after all, were “too dangerous” and had been locked away as per governmental social edict.

It wasn’t societal chaos. It was utopian policy. Somewhere during their absence, safety culture had metastasized—swiftly, completely. Every risk eliminated, every sharp edge dulled, every responsibility outsourced to machines. And once adulthood itself was deemed unsafe, society simply chose to erase it.

But the astronauts soon noticed something far stranger. People weren’t just behaving like children—they were celebrating it.

Fashion had become toddler chic. Apartments were redesigned as bouncy air playlands. Pop stars squealed in rhyming delight, their clown concerts choreographed like preschool hand-waving sing-alongs. Stars with names like Dirty Clean, Car Car, and Poo Poo reigned the charts for crayon-chewing and paste-eating neo ‘dults.

A fandom had formed around regression itself, as fervent and sprawling as any built around a blockbuster franchise. Only here, the devotion was to permanent infancy.

One moment crystallized the absurdity. A mother crouched to her toddler’s level after he misbehaved. She wore bright overalls, cartoon sneakers, and plastic barrettes in her hair. Instead of scolding him, she unleashed a torrent of complex adult vocabulary—dense, abstract phrases the boy could never understand at his level of development. He stared blankly. She beamed, convinced she had acted responsibly. It was discipline without meaning, guidance without growth.

Later, the seven astronauts were invited to a formal dinner in their honor. At first glance, it resembled a true banquet: long tables, place settings, a ceremonial hush. But the white tablecloths had been replaced with plastic spill-proof covers patterned with balloons. Wine goblets were gone, replaced by brightly colored sippy cups. Plates were oversized plastic trays divided into compartments, much like those served in a penitentiary.

Halfway through the meal, one astronaut leaned toward another. “Why are you eating with your hands?” he whispered.

She froze. Sticky sauce dripped from her fingers. Around them, the others were doing the same, scooping food messily, laughing with mouths full.

The astronaut’s eyes filled with tears. She tried to steady herself, but the tears spilled, plinking into her alphabet soup. The tiny splashes made the others erupt in snickers, then laughter, as if it were the punchline to a joke. Their giggles echoed across the table, balloon patterns shimmering under the lights. She grew more desolate, shoulders trembling with the beginnings of a sob.

The astronaut who had whispered the question felt laughter rising in his own throat—instantive, helpless. He caught himself just as it escaped his mouth, the sound dying into a strangled breath. Shame washed over him. He felt the regression taking hold, not just in dining habits but in spirit.

A chill passed through the group that froze thought. They were not immune. Whatever had overtaken Earth was creeping into their own minds.

They realized they had to return to Mars, the last place where adulthood still existed.

But no one on Earth was capable of sending them back anymore. Every official, every technician, every leader was now a child in spirit, trapped in a permanent state of ready-for-bedtime.

Or so it seemed.

In the launch facility, hidden behind padded doors and pastel signage, one figure remained. Not a politician. Not a scientist. A child—an actual child—watching them approach with solemn eyes, lowered in a dark and mournful sadness that should be beyond a child’s years.

This child was different. Her legs were braced in metal supports, each step deliberate, hard-won. Her gaze was steady, her mind stable despite a fragile body. Disabled, vulnerable, yet uncorrupted by the infantile tide that had washed over the world.

The astronauts saw in this child both weakness and a hint of salvation. In this new world, only children were trusted with responsibility. And only a child who had already lived with such difficulty could understand and withstand the weight of choice.

They pleaded for escape.

The child listened.

Then smiled—softly, almost kindly—as if deciding whether to let them go… or tuck them in forever.

After all, the world was so warm now. So soft. So comfy.

____

This story is the first of several entries from my upcoming flash fiction collection, Codex of Ruin - a cycle of strange returns, cosmic echoes, and some very uncanny artifacts. Each piece is a fragment of a larger book, released here as a glimpse of what’s to come.

The Codex opens soon...

Listening/inspired of "I can't decide" of Scissors Sisters. Dee & Verk

Every evening, the lamp turns itself on.

Not because someone lives here.

Because this room still remembers when they did.

The clock has been reading 11:47 for longer than anyone can explain.

The bed is perfectly made.

The mirror waits.

The window faces a neighborhood that has forgotten this address.

Nothing here wants to frighten you.

It only wants one ordinary evening to happen again.

#neonnightmarerewind #duskline #liminalspace #analoghorror #dreamcore #cozyhorror

Pinpin comic 4 is out!